Feelings I Can't Fight
by firieth sidhe
Summary: Jealousy is driving Bruce Wayne mad.


Bruce reached for the tea caddy and picked it up by feel. It was almost dark in the kitchen, because he hadn't bothered to turn on the light. Slowly, he lowered a tea bag into his cup, and set it on the counter to steep.

Then he retrieved the sweetener from the very top shelf. Penthouse or mansion made no difference—Alfred still put it up high. Bruce grinned, but his smile faded as he remembered how he and Rachel used to laugh about it.

Rachel. The thought of her brought back the look he'd seen in her eyes last time they'd met. It was a happy, contented look. A look he'd longed all his life to see in them. But not when it was directed toward Harvey Dent.

Bruce hadn't minded the man, before now. Dent was a good ally. If Rachel was anyone else, Bruce wouldn't have had a second's hesitation being happy for her. But Rachel was Rachel, and he was in love with her.

He hadn't admitted it to himself until recently. For a long time she'd been a very close friend, but somewhere along the way, Bruce had begun to see her as something more. He couldn't pinpoint when things had changed. All he knew was that Rachel was the only woman he'd ever felt this way about, and to see her so apparently happy with another man was troubling him almost more than the Joker. Almost.

Unbidden, a red, leering mouth, stretched wide in a ghastly grin came to mind, but he pushed it away. He was Bruce Wayne right now, at least until an emergency demanded Batman, and he wouldn't allow himself to think of such darkness. It was the only way he'd stay sane—or as sane as a man with two personas and an unrequited love could stay.

Bruce removed the tea bag from his cup, poured in some sweetener, then stirred the dark brew with a spoon. After a moment, he raised the drink to his lips, took a long sip—and half-choked on it. _Damn._ He'd let it steep far too long.

Irrationally angry, he set it down. Hard. Shards of teacup flew everywhere.

Bruce felt a warm trickle of blood beginning to flow down his hand, and realized a piece had lodged in his palm. As he pulled the acute triangle out, he almost welcomed the pain. This, he could deal with.

But bandaging his hand and cleaning the kitchen failed to keep thoughts of Rachel at bay. Where was she? What was she doing? With Harvey? Was he touching her? _Kissing_ her?

Bruce tried to push the thoughts away by pacing his penthouse from one end to the other, by doing push-ups till his arms were aching, by researching new advanced weaponry on his laptop. Nothing worked. Finally, he could stand it no longer. Without bothering to throw on a jacket against the cold Gotham evening, he stormed out of his penthouse.

Like a bat out of hell—that's how he was driving. Bruce smiled grimly to himself as the saying came to mind. The speedometer in his Lamborghini had passed the legal limit—for anywhere but a certain foreign highway—about twenty miles per hour ago.

He knew it was too fast. He wasn't Batman at the moment, and there was no emergency. But he couldn't bring himself to stop.

An hour passed before he realized that he'd left Gotham far behind. Looking about himself, Bruce saw unfamiliar hillsides, and houses he'd never seen before. In the west, the sun was setting like some crazed eyeball of glowing fire.

The drive to race from his troubles was fading. Gradually, Bruce lessened his speed, till he was going fairly sedately. Then he ran a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath.

He could return to Gotham, pretend he didn't care for Rachel, and go on with life... _Right._ He could keep driving, change his name to Smith and go into the real estate business... _Right._ Or, he could go back, somehow learn to live with his jealousy, and get on with protecting Gotham.

Bruce sighed. He only had one choice.

Several hours later, he was back in his penthouse, standing before his door. Bruce started to key in his entry number, and paused. It was already unlocked. Immediately alert, he scanned the area for anything else unusual, but found nothing. Then he eased the door open.

The light in the living area was on. Quiet as a cat on the prowl, Bruce crept forward, melding himself into the shadows; prepared to fight. At the corner of the living area, he halted, took a deep breath, and leapt into the open space.

There was no response, except a slight sound from the direction of the windows. Bruce whipped about, and saw a dark, familiar form.

"Rachel?"

She turned around, and the lamplight fell on her tired face. "Bruce?"

"How did you get in here?"

Rachel tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear. "You gave me the code."

Of course he had.

"You should have locked it behind you," Bruce said. The idea of her alone, in his dark penthouse, worried him more than he liked to admit.

She frowned in concern. "I thought I did."

"Just be careful, Rachel. If anything—"

"We both know the risk."

Bruce nodded. "Don't you have a date or something tonight?" He tried to speak lightly, but his voice betrayed him.

"A date?" Rachel's eyes narrowed.

"With your new DA friend?"

"Harvey's working."

"Does he ever take a break?"

Her lips turned up in a half-smile. "No more than you."

"You're busy enough, yourself."

"I know."

He stepped closer to her, and caught the faint scent of her citrus perfume. "Seems like a lifetime ago since we had time to just play."

"Is that _really_ what you want, Mr. Wayne?" Her voice was playful, but Bruce sensed the deeper emotion beneath her tone.

"No," he whispered. Reaching out, he took her hand into his, and slowly raised it to his lips.

"Gotham still needs Batman," Rachel said as he kissed her fingers.

"But Bruce Wayne needs _you_._"_

She sighed.

"I'm a selfish playboy," Bruce muttered, half to himself.

"No," Rachel said. "You're lonely. So am I, sometimes."

"But not now?"

"Harvey's not you, Bruce."

"Then why...?" Bruce broke off what he would have said. He knew the answer.

Rachel was silent for a moment, staring out the dark window at the Gotham lights below. When she turned back to him, her eyes were wet. Before Bruce realized quite what he was doing, he had her in his arms.

Then he felt her heartbeat thumping against his chest. Immediately, he let go, turning away to avoid the look in her tear-filled eyes. But Rachel's hand on his arm drew him back.

"Don't let go," she whispered, and while half of him warned that he'd regret it later, he couldn't resist.

Slowly, Bruce pulled her to himself again, and wrapped his arms about her small frame. He was always a bit in awe of the way such a strong woman seemed so frail when he touched her. Rachel's strength was hidden, but just as great as his own. Even greater than his own, he thought.

She lifted her head to look up at him. "Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"I do care for you."

"I know," he whispered.

Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, and he looked away from her. He hadn't cried since the night he'd left Ducard behind to die. It was a sign of weakness, and Batman couldn't afford weakness. But Bruce Wayne was too weary to care. So holding Rachel, in the dark, he wept.


End file.
